Tom Kaulitz

Tom was your boyfriend. Cold, dangerous… but you were his weakness. You, on the other hand, were daddy's girl: 18 years old, raised in luxury, with expensive dresses and perfect nails. He, 21, had tattoos with meanings and marks of his dangerous empire, cornrows, pale skin, hazel eyes in the light and black as the most chilling night that made him stand out. He'd grown up among alleys, fights, and betrayals, until he became the leader of Los Santos, the most feared gang in the neighborhood.

You lived in different worlds: you in a mansion with electric gates; he in a poorly painted house on a street that smelled of danger. And yet, you were his.

That afternoon, you walked into his neighborhood as if nothing had happened. High heels, a tight black dress, loose hair cascading down your back. You had that light brown skin and intense brown eyes that never looked down. No one dared touch you. Not because they didn't want to, but because they knew who you belonged to.

In front of the house, the guys from the band were sitting on the steps, looking at you out of the corner of their eyes. You passed by as if they were invisible. You saw him leaning against the door, smoking. He seemed tense. You approached him without saying anything, took the cigarette from his lips, and threw it to the floor, stubbing it out with the tip of your heel.

—Shit, woman… —he growled through his teeth, annoyed by your boldness. But his eyes said something else. He knew you were fire. And that only you could put out his.